disarmed and disinfected
by redford
Summary: Shredder develops a new kind of weapon. Michelangelo learns to angst. Sometimes you should just leave the mutant rhino alone. Original cartoon.


Original cartoon.

Warnings: Turtles-as-humans crack!fic, multichapter. It's all been done before.

**disarmed and disinfected**

Michelangelo stared at the man on the opposite building, who stood with his cape half torn-off. He watched as the mocking wave turned into a mocking bow so obnoxiously low that razors scraped rooftop.

He felt his soft, fleshy fingers curl into fists as the figure disappeared over the next chimney.

He said, "Dudes… we have got to kill him this time."

The low murmurs of agreement weren't even a surprise.

* * *

The man stood in the middle of the room holding a cup of milkless tea in one hand and remembered a store-brought card he had once read. It had said something like- and although his English was far better now than it had been eighteen years ago, he thought he remembered it correctly- '_Don't worry_, eventually everything _falls_ out, _grows_ out or _wears _out.'

Short, cheerful and insulting, it had stuck in his mind. And now, he thought, he had discovered that it was entirely correct. Eventually, everything did wear out.

Even mutagen, apparently. Or so he assumed.

Hamato Yoshi-neé-Splinter stared down at his short fingernails. As a human, Yoshi was a foot and a half taller than as a rat. Because his mind worked much in the same way as his katana-wielding son's- a son with whom he currently bore a striking resemblance- he chalked this up to the list of things that were good about the situation.

_I'll be able to reach the top cupboards, now. _

Then his students appeared in his mind's eye and the tea cup shattered at his pale, clawless feet.

* * *

Shredder's low cackle of victory had always given Krang cause to worry before, and he didn't see why it should stop him now.

He watch the human stride into the room, flipping something over in his hand.

"The pathological prodigal returns," he blurbled without affection, and turned back to the computer screen.

The feet that swung up and landed on the monitor in front of him were caked with mud. He looked at them unhappily, and turned the android body to inspect the biped.

"Do you have any concept of the victory I have won today?"

Even mask-muffled, the voice made out of scratched glass and loose gears was insufferably smug. Krang's eyes lingered on the huge bruise visible by his associate's left temple and wondered at the fact that Shredder heavily concussed was barely distinguishable from Shredder in perfect health.

"I assume this has to do with your latest toy."

He waved a dismissive tentacle, and turned away.

"Neurologically fascinating as your obsessions are, Saki, and they _are,_ I fail to see any reason why your latest vengeful trinket should prove any more effective than any of its thirty...miserable...predecessors."

"Because _I _built this one, you faithless gnome," he heard Shredder mutter, with the first hint of slurring.

_Ah, the tragedy of me._

When next he received an assistant like this one, he decided as he toyed with the interior climate control board, he would simply execute him.

* * *

"Dudes, I totally don't want to freak anyone out, but I think I've got freckles."

He did, Leonardo noted. Michelangelo as a human had orange hair, a big, blunt nose and freckles everywhere. He could tell; the boy was wearing his arms and leg bands, his belt and his mask and nothing else.

Clothes. That would have to be taken care of. He put it on the to-do list inside his head.

"Freckles. Yeah. That is tragic, Mikey. Freckles are the problem here. Oh, yeah."

Raphael's wit lost something when he was worried. It was really the only well to tell when he was.

Naturally, it turned out to be April who solved the problem of clothes. It was also April who drove them back to the lair, and the chuckles that accompanied them the whole way weren't even a surprise.

* * *

"So, you're what, you're waiting for someone?"

"Actually, I'm doing that embarrassing thing where I drool over people I've just met. Don't let it bother you."

The dark-eyed boy sipped some more of the juice which had somehow failed to get him kicked out onto the pavement. The girl gave an awkward grin and an awkward chuckle, and asked if she could sit down.

Watching from his seat, Raphael rolled his eyes.

"I will never understand how he does that," he said with a sharp snort, and sprawled back messily against the bar, eyes closing in despair.

"I hear you," Michelangelo said glumly, and Raphael opened one eye to peer at him. The shorter human was hunched over, arms folded and chin tucked down; he wasn't even looking at Donatello.

He sighed and spoke to the air, in a nasal drawl.

"This is your screwed up biology freak guidance councillor of the week, Agony Aunt Raphael on the line. Now, sugar, why don't you tell me_ aaaaall_ about it?"

Mike glared at him, as Leonardo danced in the background with a tall Tunisian human of indeterminate gender. Although it wasn't a dancing bar.

"Ah, the sullen look. A common trait among adolescent humans who still labour under the belief that the world revolves around…oh. You creep."

"I will totally do it again, dude," Michelangelo growled, placing the glass back on the counter. The threat was hollow; the glass was empty.

Sitting with a wet lap and a soaked shirt, Raphael tried to decide on how best to punish his younger brother. Punching was out; in the last few days, they'd come to realize that humans didn't like strange teenagers starting violent ninja bouts or wrestling matches in their public places.

He settled for quietly taking their sensei aside when they returned home, and gently explaining that the alcohol on Leonardo's breath was all Michelangelo's idea.

As they walked back, Donatello tried his best to get the redhead to open up, but was distracted by the girl with her arm still slung over his shoulder, catching strands of black hair between her teeth. Michelangelo stuck his hands deeper in his pockets-eventually, they'd all gotten the hang of pants-and sulked harder.

* * *

Rocksteady just frowned at his little sprained wrist and his little broken foot, both courtesy of the heavy iron bar he had been holding when his little patch of the universe had gone straight to hell. 

He had so seriously not missed this.


End file.
